Work Text:
Silber was soft. At least that's what you thought. This version of him existed exclusively for you. You liked to tell yourself that. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn’t. But you needed to believe it.
You held his face in your hands, your thumb gently stroked his cheek. You could tell he took good care of his skin by how smooth it felt. You knew his morning routine was meticulous, almost ritualistic, and insanely time-consuming. He woke up at 5 a.m. every morning, not for work, not for duty, but for himself. For every single step of that routine. He used more skin products than you did. More than anyone else at the FCP, probably. So few of the other employees cared as much about themselves and their well-being as he did. Maybe they couldn’t afford to.
You kissed him and his lips were soft, sweet, and tasted of pink cherry chapstick. Artificial, but endearing. Familiar. You'd savor every kiss as if it were the last one you'd ever get, because there was a chance it might be. In those moments you'd melt together, moments of pure desire and pure love, fleeting and fragile. His scent of fresh rainfall and faint cologne would fill your senses. He'd wrap his arms around your waist and for a second you'd forget all about where you were. You forgot about the FCP, your jobs, your responsibilities, your imprisonment. For a second, you were back home. Not necessarily a place or different time, but a feeling. A feeling of being safe with the one you loved. And then he’d pull away to catch his breath, and the illusion would crack. The world would rush back in like cold air, bitter and sobering.
You held his hand. It was soft, like everything else about him in these moments. You could tell he regularly put on lotion. Small, careful things like that stood out here. You gave his hand a little squeeze, almost fearful that he’d disappear if you let go. That maybe none of this was real. But he’d squeeze back, firm and steady, and smile at you.
His smile was nice. It was real. Soft. A genuine expression that brought you comfort. It stood in stark contrast to the mask he wore as the PR manager for the FCP. That mask was all shine and empty promise. This? This was just him. It was one of many reminders that he had your back; he wasn’t leaving you behind. Not now, not ever.
He was refreshing. So different from everyone else in a way you couldn't quite pinpoint. Maybe it was the way he didn't let this place get to him. How he smiled like he meant it. How he still laughed. He was so much lighter than everyone else. You hoped, God you hoped, that some of that would rub off on you. You needed it to.
Some days, it felt like the mission was hopeless. Like you’d never actually get out of this place. This organization. This prison in disguise.
But every time you felt that way, like he could sense the despair creeping in, he’d start softly,
“We’ll get out of here eventually. We’ll be okay.”
And then he’d hold you tight in his arms. He spoke of it like a fact, like a prophecy. Like he knew. And maybe he did.
You couldn't help but believe him. You had to believe him.
Because it was nice to have hope.
In a life where nothing was really yours, your voice, your body, even your own mind. it was all being used as a vessel for this organization, for something 'greater'. You were a means to an end.
You needed something of your own. You deserved something of your own. And he gave you that.
He lulled you to sleep with soft whispers of a better tomorrow.
And for now, that was enough.